As acidic rains create caves of dark recesses yet to be explored, so the tears of life create unexplored pain.

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When I was 19, I became pregnant. I was working, but I was not in school, my boyfriend had been given a General Discharge from the Navy about 4 months before. We were best friends from high school, and were both living at home with our parents. We sat at the dining room table with my mother; and we told her the situation. My mother told me that she was not going to take care of another person, and that I would be getting an abortion. She proceeded to tell me to find a clinic and set the appointment for that week. I didn’t blink, question, or debate. My mother told me what to do, I was under her household and under her rule. My opinion was not sought, there were no questions about plans. Abortion was the plan. Her tone of voice was as if I had been told to go the backyard and get my switch. It better not be so old that it would break during the whipping, and it couldn’t be so new that it was too limp to whip through the air. I knew that I had better do what I’d been told, or risk my mother withdrawing from me. I had experienced that too many times in my life, and I didn’t know if I could stand that, again.

My appointment was for Saturday of that same week, at 8:00 a.m. My mother dropped me off in front of the clinic and went to park. I had to cross the picket line of those in favor of life. I didn’t think about the life I was about to kill, my baby had become something that my mother didn’t want, and I was there because of that. My boyfriend was forbidden to know anything about when or where the abortion would take place, but I told him, anyway. I also told him that he was not allowed to come, please don’t come. He came through the door, before my mother had parked the car; and was sitting next to me holding my hand, when she came through the door. I was terrified, of my mother’s anger. I didn’t know what she would say, or what she would do. She said nothing, but the waiting room was full of her anger.

My name was called to speak with a counselor, before the procedure. Did I want to put the baby up for adoption? No. Did I want to have an abortion? No. I saw her check my paperwork for my age. She looked at me and asked why I was getting an abortion. I told her it was because my mother told me to. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. I still wonder what she wanted to say, but I believe it was something personal. I’m sure her job had forbidden the staff to speak on a personal level, or give any opinions.

I was surprised that my boyfriend was allowed in the car on the way home. He was dropped off at his house, and we never, ever spoke of that incident. No one spoke of it.

That next year, my son was born. Two months after his birth, his father and I married. One week after we were married, he hit me for the first time. I endured a horrible life with him for three years. During the time of the molestation revelation (spoken of in an earlier blog), I also relived the abortion. I had swept it under the rug. I wanted so badly to leave my mother’s home, that I jumped out out of the frying pan, and into the middle of the fire. I wondered if it was a boy or a girl, and I found myself mentally celebrating a birthday late in January.

A couple of years ago, my grandson spoke a powerful message to our church. He was all of eight years old. I felt the weight of guilt drop from my shoulders, as I watched and listened to him speak. I told myself that the abortion had to take place, so that he could come forth. I thought there had to be a sacrificial lamb, so that his father could be born. I knew that the circumstances surrounding my son’s conception could never happen again. He had to be born when he was, to be the age he was to meet my daughter-in-law in high school. All the stars had to be aligned as they were in order to get to the point in time for my grandson to stand on that Sunday morning.

This afternoon, a very good friend and I were in conversation about the affects of abortion. Basically, I told her that I was over my abortion, because I realized why it had to be done. She hit me hard: “How do you know that your son would not have been born, just as he is? We are not God.” Man! Again, I am in my cavern, digging into unexplored pain. Isaiah 55:8 says, “‘My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.'” (kjv) and 2nd Peter 3:8 says, “‘But, beloved, be not ignorant of this one thing, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.'” (kjv)

When did I become the Creator? When did I become in charge of time, or timing? I am a lowly creature, reaching out to the Creator for forgiveness. I murdered a living being. I am seeking forgiveness anew. I told myself that the abortion was my mother’s fault, and I was obeying her. I am now forgiving myself for the act which led to a child out of wedlock, and aborting my baby.

My children’s father is no longer living; I cannot seek his forgiveness. I never asked him how he felt, I never asked him if he wanted to keep the baby. I never discussed anything with him. I blindly did what I was told. He was never consulted or considered. Worse yet, I never even thought of it until this afternoon! Almost 32 years later! I can’t help but think that he had unresolved anger towards me, which played a big part in his violence towards me. He and my mother never got along, and I often saw myself as a guest on Jerry Springer’s show; just sitting quietly in the middle, while my mother and husband fought around me. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he beating me with his fists, she beating me with her words, and taking away her love.

So another cavern, another cave unexplored. I will keep digging, I need to know what else was aborted with my baby.